prisoners of our own
by whatthehell fairy
Summary: In which Hawkeye kills Black Widow under Loki's influence.


**A/N: Constructive criticism welcome. I wrote this half sober past midnight, so I don't expect anything good, anyway.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

He suspects Loki still lives in him. A ghost of his harsh frostiness whispers across Clint's mind, seeps into his heart, runs in his veins. He imagines the blue in his eyes beneath the translucent silver-grey, and he feels himself slipping away from his body. There is a moment in which he doesn't remember anything, doesn't have a sense of self - no recollection of anything, just ice in his chest and an overwhelming emptiness - and then _Loki _hits him so fast the pain is terrifying.

But what's worse than that is waking up to being yourself, knowing that someone else - a stranger, has lived your life before you. You have memories of another soul in your mind, your thoughts, and it haunts you until you think of it every moment in the day, dream of it every minute in the night. Even though you incessantly reassure yourself that it's _not your fault, not your fault,_ the scent of guilt and death hangs in the air.

And there's no undoing what's been done; your ledger gushing red, the permanent stain of cold blood on your hands.

* * *

Clint lies on the bed. His breathing is uneven, the rise and fall of his chest unsteady. His hands are clenched into fists, knuckles white, muscles tense. Everything goes through his mind at a blinding speed; pain, regret, devastation, anger, guilt, confusion. The forever repeating statement, _i'm to blame._

He feels pathetic. He's killed many people before - but then again, he usually ends it quick, and he's usually conscious and aware of what he's doing. An arrow penetrating a weak point, and it's all over. He wants to stop thinking about everything and just forget everything, but he can't. With his eyes closed he pictures her even more clearly; in the silence her screams are louder. He can't let go, can't forgive himself.

He'll never forgive himself.

* * *

Tony finds him later, at the gym, sitting on the sparring mat. His arms are wrapped around his legs, and with the way he rocks slightly back and forth, he looks_ vulnerable_, but Clint is never supposed to be vulnerable. Master assassins aren't vulnerable, they're strong and they never feel any remorse in anything that they do. They get over it and complete other missions. They never fall in love, never fall into traps they laid themselves.

Tony takes a hesitant step. Of course nothing can escape Clint, but he acts as though he doesn't notice. His eyes stare out into far space, something lost within the many layers of complex and incomprehensible thoughts. Just even thinking about trying to decipher it makes Tony feel like he's invading Clint's privacy - it's secret, guarded.

There is a long silence before Clint speaks.

"She loved sparring," came the hoarse whisper. "We'd practice once a week. She'd beat me every time. Her moves were predictable and familiar, but she was always one step ahead. Always on her guard. Deflected all of my attacks. And she laughed and told me I would never win her, never find her weaknesses."

Tony remains silent. Contrary to popular belief, he isn't entirely insensitive. There is a hidden part of him, a part he doesn't reveal to the public, a part that proves he is human, and that the cold metal of the arc reactor isn't all he has for a heart. He listens to Clint, empathizes with him, yet helpless at comforting him.

Guilt starts to tinge Clint's voice. "Now I wonder if the reason I'd never won was because a part of me let her, gave in to her, because it turns out - she was defenseless against me in the end."

"Clint, it's not your fault." Tony watches his word choice. "It was Loki. Everything you did - you were entirely, entirely under his control. You had no part in this. You aren't responsible."

Clint eventually turns to look at Tony. He has the gaze of one who's half-dead. It's a trick of the light - but for the slightest moment the light catches the blue of the sparring mat and it reflects in his eyes. It startles Tony, but he blinks and it's gone. He reassures himself that Loki's far away in another realm and can never touch Clint again.

"I was the one." His voice is strained and there's so, so much pain in it. "You don't want to know what I did to her. I - I killed her, in every way I knew she feared. I've been trying to tell myself that it wasn't me, but it still feels like my fault. I don't know what to think - it's all so _torturously_ confusing, I just want to forget. Everything. But in my mind it's on replay all over again; the red of the blood mixing with her hair, the fiery agony I saw in her eyes, her screaming my name, her final breath, the single tear that fell from her eye and landed on the floor at my feet. And when I woke up, and realized what I'd done, and I was driven absolutely insane. I wanted to scream but I couldn't even do it, because I was still a puppet under Loki's strings, and he owned me -"

"You just said it, right there," Tony says, slightly disturbed by Clint's description of her death. "You were a puppet. It wasn't you, it was Loki. Just remember, you are not to blame for what happened. Now, he can't control you any longer."

"I'm more afraid that... That he hasn't left."

* * *

Clint attends her funeral. Nobody stops him.

It rains, that day. Life seems like one big cliché. It would've been quiet if not for the howling wind, piercing the air with its screams. The rain pours down on him, drenching him. His eyes are the colour of the storm clouds, and they remain fixated on her tombstone.

He kneels by her grave and places a single rose on it. He doesn't think about how it reminds him of everything at once - the lost dreams in Budapest, the scarlet red reminding him of her hair, her lips, her blood.

It is terrible, knowing that she would still have been alive.

_She's dead. She's dead. It's all your fault._

He doesn't want to feel anything. He wants to escape. Escape reality, run away from this mess. And when he wakes it would've all changed. She will snicker at him, give him a playful punch on the arm that will probably leave a bruise for days. Her grin will reflect in her eyes and he will just stare at her, unable to look away.

But he knows this is real. He's trapped, living in a nightmare, but it's real. He wants to scream, but the sound is stuck in his throat. He wants to cry, but there are no tears for him to shed. Endless boundaries of pain envelop him; they wrap around him like unbreakable vines. He feels helpless, lost in this world, and he can't accept the fact that _she's gone._ And _he_ was the one who had murdered her; in such a brutal, cruel way.

Once, on a mission together, she was caught and held as human hostage. Once the ordeal was over and he'd saved her she was still trembling. He wrapped his arms around her, stared into her startlingly green eyes, and assured her it would be okay, that he would never let her get hurt.

He was the one who picked her up when she was shattered. But he was also the one who broke her eventually.

* * *

Days, weeks, months pass by. He has been wasting his life away, to someone he knows will never return.

He dreams, a lot. Of her. He misses her, more than he ever thought he will. In his mind he pictures her bright eyes, gorgeous smile, and he doesn't need to wake up, because she doesn't exist in the place it's supposedly real.

He dreams, so much, and it's so vivid and real that sometimes he can't tell which reality he lives in. He wanders, from place to place, reliving memories, carrying out the same missions over and over again just so he'll never forget.

There are nightmares he can't wake up from. Those in which his eyes in the mirror are blue and Natasha's petrified. In which he's fully conscious but he has no control of his body. When he wakes he'll find himself sweating and shaking, and he glances at his hands just to make sure it's not stained with her blood.

He wakes up one day, properly. It was a beautiful dream, in which she visits him and puts a hand on his shoulder and tell him that it's okay. She behaves the way she is around him, her guard on and off, hesitant yet reckless. She is waiting for him, but it is not his time to go yet. He wants to speak to her, so badly, but she has already gone. It hurts, but the tingle is so familiar it's sweet.

It's okay. Time heals all scars; he will recover, eventually.

He will do it, for her.


End file.
